I am always the one who goes to sleep first and I am always the first to rise in the morning. For some reason I am neurotically conscious of these hours -- the first and the final of the day -- as they hold a special importance over the rest of the waning suns passing. There are few particular settings in which one can be truly productive and such moments must be cultivated, protected, and conserved. Every morning I challenge myself to wake up earlier, then even earlier, so that I can revel in the silence of the new day, so that I can think, and be alone. I sneak out of the dim blue room in which we make our sleeping fort and slide into the cool desert air, taking large steps towards the mountain, raising my feet quickly over the stones as I hurry to elevate myself into the young light. I bring strong coffee and take easy stall for breath and sips. I try out different peaks and compare their vantages. When I am full of wind and heat, milky with sweat and dusted in purple ash, I descend back down to our bohemian bunker to hunker down on the day's agenda. Everyday a list of things to do: a short list, but an essential one.

1. Make a smoothie

2. Sweep around the house

3. Write a letter to ___

4. Make a collage for ___

5. Listen to and mix the music from the previous day

6. Prepare to record more music

7. Record music

8. Make a salad

9. Record more music

10. Go see the sun set

I think I have decided to make art again, to make Art again. I have many ideas but do not feel overwhelmed. My first task will be to collect my thoughts and organize them, or rather to let them organize themselves. Many of my ideas have to do with color, with the experience of color and novel theories of color. It makes me feel really good, makes me feel like a painter, and that makes me feel exceptionally alive. I have never seen so many shades and hues of rich saturated chroma than here in the desert and I hope my memory is strong enough to maintain these impressions. I am hopeful for the future. I can't wait to be with you.